The Maid of Honour: A Tale of the Dark Days of France. Volume 3 of 3

Winter and spring went by. The king was dead; the queen lingered yet in the Conciergerie. Jocund summer-time had come round again, and a quiet group clad in deep mourning enjoyed the balmy air in the secluded moat-garden of Lorge.

A tall lady on whose still beautiful face were ploughed hard lines of suffering, was contemplating with a subdued smile of settled sadness, the romps of two children on the green.

"Angelique!" she called in mild reproof, "you must not let them tire you;" whereupon an old lady sitting close at hand leaning on an ebony crutch said, "Let be. It does me good to hear Angelique laugh again after that awful day."

"Hush!" replied Madame de Gange, "you must not brood over that misfortune. The baron died as a French noble should, in doing what he believed to be his duty. Montbazon is rising from its ashes, a much more commodious dwelling."

"Thanks to your liberality," sighed Madame de Vaux, "but I can never endure to live in it."

"Nor shall you," returned Gabrielle, quickly. "We settled long ago that you and Angelique were to make your home with me."

There was a silence, while the ladies reviewed the past, which had been so terrible a nightmare to both. Then Madame de Vaux, drying her eyes, observed, "How strange it is that the baleful woman was never after heard of."

"Nor my jewel-case," replied Gabrielle, slyly. "I doubt if those stolen gems will bring good fortune to the thief!"

THE END